


The Trompowsky Attack

by ravenkings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Castiel speaks an ungodly amount of languages, Chess, Dean has ~no self esteem~, M/M, So Much Chess, but you don't have to know chess don't worry, daddy issues everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenkings/pseuds/ravenkings
Summary: The Trompowsky Attack is an unusual Queen's Pawn Opening in chess that runs the risk of sacrificing two bishops. But play them as a team, and you just might win the game.After a series of serendipitous encounters, Castiel befriends local party-boy Dean Winchester. They play chess.(This came about for three reasons. Firstly, I watched Queen's Gambit and so should you. Secondly, November 5, 2020 and November 25, 2020. Thirdly, a story told to me from my Bulgarian family friend.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> once again, you do NOT need to know anything about chess to get this! it might help a little, but chess is really just laying the groundwork here for the Romance. please let me know if you like it -- it's been years since I've written anything like this, and the idea just wouldn't let me go. if you enjoy, I'll keep sharing. thank you!

“Check.” 

“ _ Fuck  _ you for taking my rook, you old bastard,” Balthazar spits the words out, letting his head fall into his hands. 

Castiel lets the edge of his mouth curve upwards, the first expression he’s made all game. With a cool voice, he responds: “I agree with the bastard part, but I’m not sure if being twenty-one classifies me as old.” 

Balthazar looks back up, harsh expression having morphed into one of defeat. “Go ahead, take my shitty little king. You might be better at chess but at least I’m getting laid more.” He rises from the floor, groaning a little as he stretches upward from his hunched position. “On that topic, I do have to get going. Got a meeting with a bird from my 421 class.” 

Already putting the pieces back in the box, Castiel waves him away. “Someone your age or the professor?” The smooth pieces shine from the light of the singular lamp in his dorm room, black and white and just a little heavy. He treats them with care. 

With a wink and a grin, Balthazar waves from the door. “Play you next Thursday, Castiel. Oh, and Gabriel wanted to let you know that he’s having a party tomorrow and he wants you there. Having a scary Russian there keeps the guys from getting too rowdy.” Castiel hums in response, watching him exit back into the long hallway. 

Castiel finishes putting away the last pawn in his set, tucking it gently in with its brothers. He closes the drawer built into the bottom of his chess board and pops it back on the corner of his small desk. His wristwatch says 11:30, plenty of time for him to cram in an extra hour of studying before his exam tomorrow -- but he’s tired. He may have beaten Balthazar, but the game had been close. His French history grade could afford to suffer a little bit. 

He gathers his toiletries into a plastic bag, heading down the hallway to the communal bathroom. It sucked, a little bit; most of the other seniors he knew had been out of the dorms since sophomore year, but he wasn’t going to toss away this part of his scholarship just to have a bathroom of his own. As he crosses the threshold into the massive tiled room, the sound of retching is impossible to ignore. 

Alright, so  _ maybe  _ it would have been rather nice to have his own bathroom. 

Castiel ignores the ever-louder heaving as he brushes his teeth and tries to comb back his wily hair. The running tap helps block it out a little, but whoever is in there is truly having a rough go of it. Castiel starts to feel a level of concern as it continues -- he remembers his freshman year, the first chance he had to get one too many beers. Or several too many. The fear when he couldn’t walk straight, and his vision got blurry. 

Shaking his head, he turns to the stalls. He steps forward and crinkles his nose at the foul odor, but raises his hand to knock on the door. 

“Are you alright? I’m not an RA, don’t worry.”  _ Not that you could lie about this,  _ he thinks. 

Peeking under the stall, he can see a pair of beat-up gray tennis shoes. The shoes are so worn that he can barely identify the logo, the stitching around the N on the sides falling apart.

After he speaks, the retching stops briefly. Heavy breathing, a body knocking into the side of the stall. The shoes shift, turning to face the door instead of the abused toilet. A freckled fist emerges from the bottom of the stall, a thumb poking upwards. It’s enough for Castiel. 

He taps on the stall again before he turns and heads back to his room, calling out over the tile: “Drink some water next time.” 

***

_ Je ne comprends pas. Fuck Napoleon. _

Castiel thinks about how he should have studied just a bit harder for his exam, staring hard at the final question. He’d woken up at four AM to the sound of his upstairs neighbors banging headboards, and though Castiel appreciated young love as much as anyone else, it was just a bit frustrating to live directly beneath two rabbits. He wasn’t expecting his exam grade to suffer  _ quite  _ this much.

He scribbles out a few more sentences about the shortcomings of 19th-century French government figures and turns in his test, giving a warm smile to his professor as he does. She offers him a curt  _ merci  _ and sends him away -- she had never quite gotten over Castiel keeping French as a minor instead of a major. He tries to make up for it with an almost-perfect accent. 

He walks back to his dorm, yawning every few steps as he goes. He could snag something from the dining hall, or raid Gabriel’s pantry later; after a few moments of contemplation, he decides that Gabriel can afford to offer him some food after stealing most of his beers for the better part of their freshman year. 

As Castiel gets back to his room, his phone begins to buzz. He flips it open with a grin, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he wiggles his key into the lock. “Привет мама.” 

“мой сын! Your accent is worse. You’re spending too much time with these Americans.” 

“Maybe if we’d stayed in the icy wonderland of Kirov four years ago I would sound a little better,” his voice is soft. It was a comfort to hear his native language, even if just for a second.

“Тише. Have you been spending time with Gabriel? You’re starting to sound like him. His mother said he was doing well.” 

“He seems well. I’m going to see him tonight, actually.” Castiel tosses his backpack onto the spare bed in his room, sitting at his desk and letting his eyes roam over the black and white squares in the corner.

“That sounds nice. I don’t have much to talk about, just wanted to check in with you. Any update on the dating front?” 

Castiel’s heart sinks. 

“I’m expecting to meet a nice young girl by Christmas! Remember, this is--” 

“--the last time I’ll be exposed to so many single young women, yes,” he finishes, voice tired. 

“Exactly! I’m sure the French department is full of beautiful girls. Or the Spanish department. You’ve got quite a few options,  Умница.”

“да мама,” Castiel’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “I have to get going, I have some studying to do. I’ll call you next week.” 

“до свидания! Tell Gabriel I said hello and to keep his nose out of trouble. Keep an eye out for those girls--”

Castiel flips the device closed, tossing it alongside his backpack. With a sigh, he rests his head on the desk. The pit of shame that lives in his stomach makes itself a little more apparent. 

  
  


***

The blaring ringtone from his phone wakes him up. He startles, knocking his knee hard against the edge of the desk. With a curse and a leap onto his tiny twin, Castiel catches the call just in time. 

“Hello?” 

“Cas! What’s up cuz? You heading over soon? I’ve got a Natty with your name on it!” 

“Gabriel, hey,” Castiel glances down at his watch. 8:45pm.  _ Shit.  _ “Sorry, you woke me up. I’ll head over in a little bit. Who else did you invite?” 

“Took the Devil’s nap, eh?” Castiel hears him give a full-bellied laugh on the other side of the phone. “Glad to see the stick isn’t so tight up your ass anymore. Figured you would have been at the library learning Swahili or something.” 

Castiel eyes the list of languages taped to his wall. Although Gabriel’s comment irritates him, it would have been true if Swahili was a higher priority than #7.

“I have noisy neighbors so I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll head over later if you promise to save me something better than a Natural Light.”

“Sure, I’ve got some nicer stuff. Oh, and to answer your question, I told Balthazar to tell every single person he knows about tonight. I love a guys’ chess night just as much as the next dude but I’m looking for a more… feminine ambience.” 

Castiel turns his head away from the phone, sighing. He reflects for a second -- it’s not too late to go to the library. He may have just wasted an entire day sleeping, but he could get some of that time back.

“It’s your senior year, Castiel. If you don’t show I’ll send a pretty lady to Melrose to come get your tight ass,” Gabriel pauses. “I haven’t seen you since school started. Come through. I’ll see you later.”  _ Click.  _

He swallows, mouth dry and stomach empty. He knows he’ll feel guilty about not studying tomorrow, but he can just scrap his normal Saturday of chess with his club. It  _ is  _ his senior year -- and he hadn’t exactly lived it up during the first three, at least not frequently.

Trodding down the familiar path to the communal bathroom, he eyes himself. His hair is messier than usual, and stubble is crawling up his cheeks. His gray shirt has a hole in the left armpit and his beige sweatshirt looks...well, like a beige sweatshirt. 

Castiel splashes water on his face to bring some life back, trying to smooth down some stray pieces of hair. He brushes his teeth and treks back to his room, tossing his jacket and shirt for a thin navy sweater. His black tennis shoes are traded out for Keds. The gray sweatpants he slept in, however, make the cut. 

Gabriel’s house is just a ten-minute walk from his dorm, and Castiel enjoys the quiet. The house is in a small neighborhood in the opposite direction from the main street of their college town -- no rowdy freshmen to navigate around. It’s late September, but a chill just barely hangs in the air. Castiel misses many things about Kirov, but the weather certainly isn’t one of them. 

As he approaches the house, the quiet evaporates. Music blares and the front door is wide open; Castiel can see a mass of bodies inside, several other people smoking on the porch. He thinks, briefly, about continuing to walk, or turning around -- but then one of the smokers calls out to him. 

“Cassie! Come here, you bastard,” Balthazar’s voice is warm and more British than normal, so Castiel knows he’s already had quite a bit to drink. “I thought you’d never show!” 

“It’s not even ten, Balthazar,” Castiel states flatly. 

“That may be true, but you’ve never been one to  _ not  _ be punctual! Come on inside, you look like a man who is in  _ desperate  _ need of a drink.” 

With Balthazar dragging him by the elbow, Castiel weaves through the crowd at the front door and into the living room. It’s hot inside, and he wishes that he’d made a different outfit choice. As they emerge into the kitchen, there’s a soft breeze coming in through the open back door alongside the smell of marijuana. Castiel gazes around the kitchen and out the back, trying to identify any faces -- he sees some people from his floor and Spanish classes from years ago, but no one substantial. 

Balthazar hands him a beer. It’s a Natty Light.

Castiel scowls. “I was told you’d have other refreshments.” 

Balthazar laughs. “All the good stuff is locked up in your dear cousin’s room. Find him, you’ll find the good booze. Ciao, Cassie -- I’ve got a lovely thing outside that I don’t want to keep waiting. There are some other lovelies here that I invited  _ just  _ for you.”

If Castiel could control the blood vessels in his face, he would. The blush is hot over his cheeks. “Balthazar, you know I’m not--”

“Not looking for one, yes, of course! But I found some people who you might want to look at for just, oh, I don’t know,” he winks. “An hour or two.”

With that, he’s off into the crowd. Castiel is alone, cradling his shitty beer. He decides that his best next option is to find Gabriel and access something that doesn’t taste like piss, but until then, the piss will have to do. He chugs back half the can, desperately needing a little liquid something to get him through this without Balthazar. 

He snags a second can from the fridge just in case, and begins his journey around the house. Living room, no luck. Dining room, beer pong tournament. Bathrooms,  _ fully  _ occupied. He checks the two closets in the back, the spare bedroom (luckily empty), and still no Gabriel. His last resort is to head into the pot-filled backyard, and though he’s not excited to fill his lungs with smoke he’s looking forward to a place with a bit of a breeze. 

He works his way back through the throngs of loud bodies, entering the kitchen and tossing his drink cans into the trash as he goes. With no food in his stomach, it’s hitting him faster than normal -- but that’s not a bad thing in this situation, not when he only knows two souls out of the dozens in this house. He walks down the three steps into the backyard, finding a small fire in the pit surrounded by about five people, with various others scattered around, laughing and leaning in close. 

Castiel wanders around the thinner crowd, scanning for Gabriel and finding that, once again, he is nowhere to be found at his own party. Even tipsy, he feels a tingle of irritation at the back of his skull; after all, Gabriel  _ asked  _ him to be here, and now he’s not even present to talk to Castiel about what a stick in the mud he’s being. 

Frustrated with the idea of scouring the inside of the house again, Castiel decides to buck up and ask a stranger about Gabriel’s whereabouts. They probably won’t know either, but it’s the last thing he can think of. He scans the backyard from the edge of the fence, trying to pick out someone who will be friendly, and probably knows Gabriel, and isn’t going to blow smoke in his face--

“Hey! You lookin’ for someone, man?” 

Before he can pick someone out, someone picks him. 

Castiel turns in the direction of the voice, to his left. There’s a tall man standing there, just barely taller than him -- it’s hard to pick out his features with only the light of the fire to go by, but Castiel can see a sharp jaw and the soft curve of a pretty mouth. His hair is cropped short, and he’s got on a flannel shirt that hugs his shoulders in a nice way. 

“Dude?”

Castiel snaps back to attention, embarrassed at how much the alcohol is impacting him. “Yes! Sorry, I’ve had a little to drink,” he starts, and the man laughs. 

“It’s a party, I would hope you’d be enjoying it a little.” His voice is almost as warm as the heat from the fire. 

“Yes, I -- I am. Sorry, I don’t drink all that much, I’m not being as articulate as I’d like to be,” Castiel fights the flush on his cheeks, takes comfort in the darkness around them. “I’m looking for the host, actually.” 

“Oh, Gabe? Last I saw he was picking up some chick from my engineering 302 class,” the stranger chuckles, shifts his weight to one leg as he sticks his hands in his pockets. Castiel notices that his legs bow out, just the slightest bit. 

“Ah. So you would anticipate that he won’t return to the events of the party for some time?” Castiel asks, genuine. But from the stranger’s laugh, he can tell that the man thinks he’s more clever than he actually is. 

“Yeah, I would say so. You said you don’t drink a lot?” The stranger pulls a flask out of a back pocket, silver and scratched. He unscrews the top, takes a swig, and extends it to Castiel. “I would consider myself a bit of an expert.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What would that be?”

The stranger smiles, a delicate thing. “Not Natty Light, that’s for sure.” He bumps Castiel’s knuckles with the cold flask. 

Castiel takes a few sips, letting the whiskey burn down his throat. He hands it back, trying not to overreact when their fingers touch. They’re at an impasse in the conversation -- Castiel has two options. He could leave, try to follow the sound of banging headboards and force Gabriel to give him some alcohol that isn’t so bad. Or he could stay with the handsome stranger. 

Castiel feels reckless. 

“What’s your name?” He says, sticking his hand out. It feels like a silly formality now that they’ve sipped from the same flask, but his mother taught him to be cordial. Regardless of circumstance. 

The stranger stares at his hand, surprised, before cracking out another smile. “Dean,” he says, extending his hand to almost meet Castiel’s. “Nice to meet you.” 

“I’m Castiel,” the words crawl out of his throat, Castiel feeling a little terrified for some reason. He doesn’t do this -- talk to new people, share drinks with strangers. But something about his eyes makes Castiel want to trust him, and the curve of his lip doesn’t hurt either. 

Castiel feels a smile forming on the edges of his mouth, and he looks down to close the distance between their hands. The further down he looks, the slower his breathing gets, until a breath catches in his lungs. 

In the firelight, he can make out a scrappy pair of gray tennis shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel runs into Dean again.

Castiel wakes up with a headache. 

He’s sprawled on Gabriel’s downstairs couch, mouth glued shut and body full of gravel. He cracks open one eye to stare at his watch: 9:00. Twelve hours since he ended up at the party. 

_ Fuck. I have to get to the library.  _ He rolls inelegantly off the threadbare furniture and into a mystery liquid on the floor, and he tries not to feel too disgusted as he stands up. He treks back into the kitchen to fill his body with something that won’t make him feel the way he does now, chugging water from the tap and tucking an entire pack of blueberry bagels under his arm. He closes the back entrance to stop any more chill from getting into the house, then heads to the front door.

As he makes his way through the now almost-empty house, he notices two other people he doesn’t recognize passed out on various thrifted pieces of furniture. He peeks into Gabriel’s bedroom near the dining room and sees a mass of blonde hair that decidedly does not belong to his cousin. Castiel sighs; he’ll see Gabriel sometime later. 

The walk back to his dorm isn’t as quiet during the day as it was last night. There are joggers out, a few families on bicycles making their way down the streets. It’s a little noisy, but not college-kids-causing-a-ruckus noisy. It’s just nice. 

As he gets back to his dorm, he makes a list in his mind: 

  * _1\. Shower._


  * 2\. Go to the library. 


  * 3\. Call Meg and let her know there’s no club today.


  * 4\. Experience Meg’s wrath. 


  * 5\. Eat bagel.



He strips off his reeking clothes and tosses them haphazardly across the room, grabs his plastic bag of shower supplies and a towel, and heads to the bathroom. 

As he starts up the shower to let it warm, he decides to move list item #3 up to #2. He can call her while he walks to the library, knock two birds out with one stone. He checks the temperature and it’s lukewarm, but he doesn’t have much time to waste. Castiel steps in and suds up his hair, cranking the temperature to a hotter setting and sighing as it cascades down his back. 

Castiel’s mind drifts away from his list and back to the events of last night, which are hazier in his mind than he would like to admit. He usually doesn’t get so drunk that he can’t even stumble home, but he’d been drinking something much stronger than he was used to -- but where had he gotten it from? He remembered a silver flask, the burning behind his teeth, and then--

_ Oh.  _ Right. The stranger. 

Castiel feels the same blush start creeping up his neck, over his chest. He doesn’t remember much about what he talked about with the guy, or even his  _ name _ \-- but he remembers exactly how he felt looking at him. The warmth spreads lower, and Castiel feels a wave of embarrassment and need. As he washes his body, he makes the decision that he usually makes and simply ignores it. 

The embarrassment he feels about his attraction stops him from doing anything, most of the time. But this _ ,  _ especially, is different. It’s not like the stranger was  _ really  _ a stranger anymore -- Castiel may not remember exactly, but he knows they spoke for a long while, finished whatever was in the flask. He remembers the other man laughing, sharing jokes about Gabriel and being much friendlier than Castiel would have expected from someone with such a clenched jaw. He can’t do  _ that  _ while thinking of someone that he kind of  _ knows _ . Castiel has a strict policy around that sort of thing. Even when the stranger had such a nice mouth. 

Castiel turns the water cold and chooses to think about Spanish grammatical structure instead of the angle of the stranger's shoulders.

***

“You’re  _ cancelling?  _ We only meet every other week!” 

Castiel holds the phone away from his ear, Meg’s voice harsh and crackling through the device. 

“I’m sorry, Meg, I got caught up last night --”

“If you weren’t  _ caught up _ with a young hunk then there’s no excuse,” her voice has a finality that deflates Castiel. “And, not to slam you, Castiel -- I’m not sure if that was happening.” 

“What makes you so certain that I wasn’t doing exactly that?” He can hear the cheap indignation in his own voice, and he wants to suck the words back up into his mouth. 

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re _so_ deep in the closet you’ll only tell someone after they try to come onto you after a friendly game of strip chess?” There’s a smile in her voice. While it had been humiliating in the moment, Castiel was glad that he had told her last year -- having just one person to know the reality of who he was made the shame pit shrink significantly. Sometimes. 

“Anyway, if you’re bailing on the club then at least let me come over tomorrow night. Just three games, I won’t keep you long.”

“Fine.  _ Just  _ three.” 

“Beautiful. I’ll see you then. Don’t get your  _ holas  _ and  _ bonjours  _ confused.” 

She ends the call before Castiel can say goodbye. Her phone call timed out perfectly for him to get to the library and get started on task #5. 

***

Castiel spends the next day-and-a-half holed up in the library, trying to memorize as much as he can for his Spanish literature class. It was a different animal trying to understand Don Quixote in the original language, and he was exhausted by deciphering the different tenses. He was having a rough language day, which happened every once in a while. He had four different tongues vying for space in his brain -- sometimes it was impossible to compartmentalize them. 

The fourth time that Castiel mispronounces  _ comprende  _ as  _ comprends  _ in his head, he slaps the book shut. He tucks his papers and novels into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder as he rearranges the desk space how it had been when he found it. It’s already 5:00, and he knows Meg won’t be too much longer; he treks back to his dorm to clean up before she arrives. 

Castiel walks back slow. The weather is just this side of chilly, and he appreciates the cool air compared to the stuffiness within the library. A young couple walking hand-in-hand passes him, the young girl uttering a soft  _ excuse us  _ as they go. She has a gentle smile and pretty brown eyes, dark hair spiraling around her face in tight corkscrews. Her partner is a good deal taller, and he gives Castiel the same polite smile. They look happy.

He wants to stop himself, but he can’t. Turns around for just a second, looking at the pair move closer together to ward off the chill in the air. With a soft ache in his heart, Castiel thinks about how that could have been him and Meg. If he could have just kissed her back when she tried -- it would have been easier. He would have had to lie, of course. But sometimes he felt that the simple intimacies may have been worth the larger lie. 

_ You would have hurt your best friend, though.  _ He sighs. Pushes the thoughts down and away, out of sight. 

The stairs leading to his floor feel steeper than normal, and he flops on his bed with sweat clinging to his back. Castiel lets himself rest there for a minute, thinking about how he should probably change before Meg gets there. But as he sits up and looks around for an alternative outfit, he realizes that he’s out of clothes entirely.  _ Fuck.  _

He gathers up his laundry into the hamper, figuring he can do a quick load before Meg arrives in an hour. The shirt on his back goes into the hamper and he puts on the beige sweatshirt so he’s not fully exposed on the way to the first-floor laundry room. The zipper is broken, but at least he can pull it in front of his chest if he needs to. All of his sweatpants are exceptionally worn, so he selects the least-ripe pair and tosses them on. He’ll wash them next time. 

The quarters jingle in his pocket as he goes back down the steps, basket heavy on his hip. Luckily, the laundry room is empty when he arrives -- his stuff goes in quick, and Castiel takes a seat on top of an empty dryer. He should have brought a book, but he wants to turn off his brain for a little bit. He focuses on the hum of the machines, closing his eyes and not bothering to tuck his hoodie against his body. The fifteen minute cycle passes quickly, and he moves his clothes into the dryer. Ready to phase out for another thirty minutes, a voice jerks Castiel back into reality. 

“--yeah, I’ve got a deal with the janitor. My own secret hideaway,” the voice echoes into the laundry room, bright and warm. Castiel can’t place it, but the familiarity is undeniable. He cranes his neck forward to look out the open door of the laundry room, machine humming underneath him. When he sees the person to whom the voice belongs, he jerks back inside: the stranger! _His_ stranger. The decidedly  _ hot  _ stranger, who Castiel is now getting to see in full light for the first time. 

Fluorescent lighting typically doesn’t do anyone any favors, but the man still has an almost golden hue about him as he walks down the hall with a young woman. From what Castiel could remember about their drunken conversation, both of them living in Melrose Hall hadn’t come up. But after all, he couldn’t remember much of what was said -- it had been hard for his brain to focus on anything outside of freckles and a soft smile. 

As the voices get louder, Castiel feels a wave of self-consciousness. He knows that he didn’t exactly look exceptional at the party, but this is an even further step down. In a split-second, he opens a washer and swings the door all the way open, tucking his face and arms into the machine as though rooting around for something.  _ I should have embraced acting in middle school like Gabriel,  _ he thinks. 

The voices pause for a second outside the door, and Castiel prays for them to move on and not actually be doing something in this room.  _ Fuck.  _ He hadn’t planned for them to be doing  _ laundry.  _ His arms and head weren’t visible, but his torso was  _ absolutely  _ exposed and if they came behind him they’d see  _ no laundry  _ in this machine, but certainly whatever hideaway he’d heard them mention wasn’t in the  _ laundry room-- _

“Dean? What are you looking for?” the girl speaks up, voice just slightly annoyed.

_ Dean! The name!  _

“Oh, uh. Nothing! Just didn’t realize there was a laundry room over on this side too,” his voice fades away as they continue down the hall, and Castiel heaves a sigh of relief. He smacks his head on the edge of the washer as one of the machines blares, cursing in Russian as he removes himself. 

He had looked at Dean for all of three seconds and it was enough to make him do something as idiotic as shove half his body into a washing machine. Castiel didn’t know what to do -- the concept of potentially running into the stranger -- no,  _ Dean --  _ every time he had to wash his clothes was nothing short of mortifying. He hadn’t acted so flustered around someone since he’d developed a crush on his best friend in the ninth grade.  _ You barely even know him.  _

Castiel waits for his clothes to finish before running upstairs to freshen up. He hops out of the shower right as Meg calls him, and he tugs on a freshly-washed blue shirt and clean sweats.

“You’re in Melrose, right?” 

“Yeah, West side. 1307,” Castiel tries to dry some of the excess water out of his hair before draping his towel over the second desk in the corner of his room next to his incredibly beige hoodie.

“I’ll be there in just a sec,” her voice echoes from his cellphone and around the corner at the same time. “Castiel! Got all cleaned up just for me?” She gives him a wink and toes off her Keds, not bothering to close the door more than halfway. 

“I forgot how shitty this dorm is. Your scholarship won’t put you in a better one?”

“Only luxury for all the foreign language students.”

Meg cracks a smile and tugs her black sleeves over her hands. He pulls out the chessboard as she sits cross legged on the floor, brown waves trickling over her shoulders and framing a soft jaw in the prettiest way. If Castiel didn’t have certain proclivities, he would spend all day combing his hands through her hair. But the way things are, he’s content to admire her from an aesthetic perspective exclusively. He's never fallen in love with anyone before, but the way he cares about Meg is pretty close. 

Before setting up the board, he grabs two pawns: one black, one white. He brings them together in his hands, closes his eyes, and rolls them around before separating them into each of his hands. He opens his eyes and sticks out his fists for Meg. She taps his left; white pawn. 

“Yes!” she exclaims, reaching into the drawer for the white pieces. “I’ve been working on the English Opening. I’m going to crush you.” 

Castiel scoffs. “Having the first move isn’t everything. You should know that after three years,” he lies through his teeth. 

They play quickly, not bothering with a clock. Castiel taught Meg everything she knows, and part of that includes playing faster than your opponent expects in times like these. Scanning the board, analyzing patterns of each piece -- that can be saved for tournaments. This is the fast and dirty version of chess, and Castiel is exhilarated. 

After fifteen minutes, Meg blunders. Her queen is exposed, and Castiel moves in for the kill. 

“Son of a bitch,” she slaps her hand on the ground, staring at the board. “I’m an idiot.” 

“You’re one of the brightest players I know,” Castiel states warmly. “You have a little too much confidence in your bishops, though.” 

They play for two more minutes before Castiel checks. 

“Shit!” 

She stares at the board, trying to get out of Castiel’s trap. But he already knows that she can’t. Meg leans forward with an exasperated sigh and tilts her own king over, letting the tall piece land with a soft  _ click.  _ “I resign.” 

“Good game.” 

“Fuck you too,” Meg says, her voice nothing short of sweet. “Second round. You be white.” 

This round takes thirty minutes, and Castiel wins with just three white pieces left on the board. Meg is left speechless this time around, staring at her army of pawns scattered around the squares like MIA soldiers. Castiel watches her with the slightest smile around his eyes, feeling like he isn’t a failure for the first time all day.

“That’s two out of three,” he laughs around the words as Meg individually curses each of her remaining pieces on the board. “We can play a third if you want, but--”

A knock at the half-open door, a creak as it opens just a little. 

“Cas? That you?” 

The words die on Castiel’s tongue, and he’s left staring as Dean leans his shoulder past the frame of the door. Once he’s got both eyes on Castiel, Dean’s grin widens. “I knew that voice! Didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon,” he says, looking tall and golden in the light from Castiel’s singular desk lamp. 

“Castiel, who’s this?” Meg turns to him with a raised brow, and she mouths  _ what the fuck?  _

He gulps. This is not optimal. “Meg, this is Dean. I met him at Gabriel’s the other night,”  _ after I saw him almost passed out in the bathroom,  _ Castiel adds in his head. “Dean, this is my friend Meg.” 

Dean hovers around the door, peering around the room. His eyes linger on the sweatshirt draped over Castiel’s desk, then he turns his gaze back to the other two people on the floor. “Y’all playing chess? I love that game, used to play with my little brother.” 

“Oh? You should play  _ Cas _ ,” the words are directed at Dean, but she looks at Castiel. There’s something in her face that makes him nervous. He wants to jump out the window to avoid Meg’s shark eyes and Dean’s uneasy smile. “He’s vice president of the chess club here.”

“Are you sure? I haven’t played in awhile, might be a little rusty. And hell, that board looks a little cutthroat,” Dean chuckles softly, almost declining the invitation yet stepping further into the room. Castiel becomes acutely aware of his unmade bed and the books strewn about the room, his lists and papers taped to the walls.  _ Do I look crazy? Oh god, I must look crazy. I feel crazy. Am I? _

Castiel realizes that he hasn’t responded to Dean’s question, assuming that Meg would do it for him. Instead, they’re both staring at him during a silence that has gone on just three seconds too long. 

“Oh, um -- yes, of course. If you want, of course,” the words stumble out of his mouth, and he feels a hint of humiliation in his gut. He takes a second to take a deep breath, vowing to regain his composure -- it’s just Dean, just a casual acquaintance. Friendly chess game, nothing else.  _ I’ll just end it quickly and kick them both out.  _ Castiel thinks about how much easier it will be to compose himself without the distraction of Dean’s mouth. 

“Hell yeah, man,” Dean grins wide, eyes crinkling. Castiel turns his attention to Meg, and though she looks a little less predatory there’s still something behind her eyes that makes him want to run. 

“You can take my seat, Dean. I’ll watch,” Meg states coolly, taking up residence on Castiel’s unmade bed. “Keep an eye on his knights. Best of luck.” 

“Thanks for the tip.” Dean’s words drip with sincerity. He takes Meg’s spot on the floor, opting to tuck one leg under his body and leaving the other up to rest his elbow. Castiel remains cross legged, repeating the pawn procedure from before. Dean doesn’t tap his hand, opting instead to point at his right fist from at least a few inches away. Castiel is both relieved and disappointed, and he tries to squash the latter deep into his bones. The pawn is revealed: black.

“Alright, not optimal but I can roll with that,” Dean plucks the piece from Castiel’s hand and begins arranging his pieces. His face steels into something unreadable, and it’s much easier for Castiel to focus on the task at hand without pretty green eyes staring back at him. 

Dean makes the first move, then the rest is a blur. 

“Check.”

Castiel stares at the board, stunned. He glances at Meg, and her eyebrows are higher than he’s ever seen them. 

He shifts his eyes back to the board. The knight, his last rook, two pawns. His king. Looks at the little squares that have betrayed him so thoroughly. 

Finally, he looks up at Dean. There’s a glint in his eyes that reminds Castiel of the firelight two days ago, reflecting gold. 

The game is over. He's stuck. 

“I resign,” Castiel speaks the words quietly, letting his eyes roam over the board again. The more he studies it, the more he realizes how screwed he was -- Dean has him captured in at least three different ways. 

“Great game, Cas,” Dean grins. “You really are a monster with those knights. We can play again if you want?” 

The eyes aren’t distracting him as much now. There’s a crack in his ego, and it’s more pressing than the pit of shame in his stomach now. 

“Yes.”

***

_ FUCK.  _

Castiel can’t see himself, but he knows his hair looks crazy. After almost every move that Dean makes, he rakes his fingers through the mop of dark brown on his head. Briefly, he checks his watch -- 1:00. Meg went home two hours ago after giving Dean a pat on the back and an invitation to the chess club. She told Castiel she would catch up with him later. And then she told  _ him  _ good luck this time. 

Dean is perfectly calm and collected. Occasionally, he sips from a black thermos that Castiel didn’t notice him bring in. He can’t notice much else outside of the chess board; after all, every game is a more horrifying bloodbath than the last. 

“Hey, Cas, I’m having a blast but I have a test in seven hours,” Dean laughs softly. “I can always come back if you want to keep playing?”

_ Keep getting my ass kicked, you mean,  _ Castiel thinks. He’s amazed at how... _ cordial  _ Dean has been. No gloating, just a gentle smile every now and then. He almost looks sheepish after he says ‘check’ each time. 

“We can hold the board as it is,” Castiel states, matter-of-fact. It won’t make a difference, really -- Dean has already managed to capture both of his knights and his queen, and he has an iron defense surrounding his own king. But in the back of his mind, he wants an excuse for Dean to come back. Even though he’s been horribly beaten, Dean plays in a way that Castiel has never seen; it’s fun, and fast, and he has to work so hard just to try and keep up. He hasn’t enjoyed chess this much in  _ years _ . 

“Okay, sure! When do you want to do this again?” 

Castiel raises his eyes from the board to find Dean looking right at him. His hand is extended over the board, an invitation. Dean’s hands were the only part of him that Castiel had watched intently over the last few hours -- a few freckles over his knuckles, a nice curve of the thumb. Taking his hand now, Castiel can feel what he couldn’t see: thick calluses on his hands, rough to the touch. Castiel doesn't dwell on the handshake; he's sure Dean is just an incredibly good sport. 

“What’s your class schedule? I’m free every evening after six, usually,” Castiel lets Dean’s hand go to pick up the board, placing it on the spare desk with care. 

“Whenever works for you, man. I don’t live in this building, but I can stop by on Tuesday at seven?” Dean straightens his back, stretching his arms up over his head with a  _ pop!  _ Castiel doesn’t stare directly, but it’s hard not to follow the line of Dean’s neck into his flannel collar. 

“Yes, that’s great,” Castiel murmurs, working the edge of his worn t-shirt between his fingers. “If you don’t live in this building why were you over here to begin with?”

Dean cocks his head to the side with a smirk before giving Castiel a wink. “Got some...friends, over here. Had to stop by for a quick visit.”

Castiel nods, not betraying the sinking of his heart. Instead, he relishes in it -- this can kill his infatuation faster than anything else. He wonders, briefly, if just watching Dean’s hands on the board was enough to throw off his game.  _ God, you have got to go on a damn date,  _ he thinks to himself. If freckled knuckles were enough to make him lose it, who knows what an actual date with a real human being would do to him. He might die. 

“I understand. Well, sorry for keeping you so late -- you’re, uh. Very good.” 

Dean beams. “Thanks Cas. You get some good sleep, man. I’ll catch you later.” 

He leaves with the thermos and his few belongings,taking a final sip before closing the door on his way out. Castiel heaves a massive sigh, letting his head fall forward. Exhaustion soaks through into his bones, and he wants nothing more than to sleep for an entire day. He gets up off the floor to prepare to fall into bed, thinking about the Sicilian Defense and its variations, ways to stop Dean’s damn  _ queen  _ from eating up any more -- 

The door creaks back open, startling him. 

“Hey! Sorry, I just -- wanted to say thanks again. And sweet dreams, Cas,” Dean pokes just his head through the door, eyes still bright and a hint of a smile on his face. 

Castiel stares at him, face blank in his surprise. “You as well. Goodnight, Dean.” 

The door shuts, and Castiel groans into his pillow as he falls into bed. 

_ I’m screwed.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! part 2! if you enjoy, please let me know and I'll keep it up. i appreciate you looking at this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel plays Dean again, and they learn more about each other in the process. He eats more bagels.

Castiel wakes up after five hours of sleep, waking up with the sun. He groans and scrubs a hand over his face -- he wants to sleep more, but he knows that he can’t. He needs to start getting ahead on his French Revolution text, and as he glances around the room he sees Don Quixote glaring at him from the desk. Begrudgingly, he gets up and heads to the showers. 

After he cleans up, he grabs some coffee and takes up residence in a dark corner of the dining hall. It’s almost empty; a few 8am students are scattered throughout the large space, trying to wake up before class. Castiel takes out his books and scans through the material, letting his coffee cool a little bit before adding two creams and one sugar. He sips carefully, letting the caffeine slowly wake him up as the history of France soaks into his brain. After an hour, he switches to Quixote with no problem -- it’s a better language day. So good of a language day, in fact, that he writes out his daily list with all four that he knows. 

  * _1\. перестань думать о Дине._


  * 2\. Terminar clases.


  * 3\. Manger plus de bagels de Gabriel.


  * 4\. Figure out how to beat Dean at chess. 



His classes run from ten to four, and he enjoys them. He has a Russian folklore elective that just takes place on Monday afternoons, and it’s always exciting to go; even being a native speaker, it was refreshing to hear it spoken aloud instead of in the back of his mind or his mother’s voice. As Castiel makes his way into the tiny classroom, he smiles at his professor and the three other students in the class. He feels like he belongs for an hour. 

The phone in his pocket starts vibrating at the end of his class, preventing him from talking with his professor at the end like he usually does. His professor isn’t a native speaker, but she has been to Russia far more than the average American. Castiel huffs, annoyed at the little device. He would go without it if he could, but he knows his mother would fly down from North Dakota just to wring his neck if he got rid of it. 

“Hello?” His voice is irate as he picks it up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading out into the hallway. He waves to his professor and calls back a quick  _ Спасибо. _

“Castiel! What are you up to this beautiful Monday afternoon?” Gabriel’s voice is almost aggressively cheerful, and it makes the scowl on Castiel’s face deepen. 

“I just got out of class. I’m heading back to the library to work.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re coming to Melrose and stepping into the  _ gorgeous  _ Dodge Caravan parked out front. There are two Dodge Caravans out here, but just get into the one with the more handsome driver,” Gabriel sounds positively jolly. “You owe it to hang out with your coolest cousin, man. Especially after you never even showed up to my party.”

“I  _ most certainly  _ was in attendance,” Castiel huffs into the device. Though he’s annoyed with the divergence from his plan for today, he heads back in the direction of his dorm. He’d never admit it aloud, but he missed seeing Gabriel. “You were busy with some girl from an engineering class, I believe. I scoured that house for you, Gabriel -- I’m pretty sure I inhaled billions of germs from your friends in the process.”

Gabriel just laughs into the phone, so loud it’s almost like static in Castiel’s ear. “A few germs won’t kill you, buddy. You’ve got a superpowered immune system from living in that cold-ass country most of your life, anyway,” he pauses. “How’d you know that chick was in engineering? I know for a  _ fact  _ that you’ve never set foot in a single STEM building since freshman year.”

Castiel takes a little breath in, cold air sharp in his lungs. “I spoke to a friend of yours, Dean. He mentioned it.” 

“Oh, you met  _ Dean?  _ Winchester’s a real hoot. Didn’t really think you’d get along with him.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows knit together. “Why not? He seems very kind.”

“He’s a nice guy, for sure. Probably the only person I know who goes harder at parties than Balthazar, though. Not exactly your vibe, I thought?” 

The confusion in Castiel’s face grows. Sure, he’d encountered Dean in the bathroom before they even actually met, but he figured it was a one-off thing. Dean hadn’t seemed any drunker than anyone else at the party -- but then again, Castiel could barely even remember what they talked about. 

“He didn’t seem...messy, if that’s what you are implying,” Castiel says. “Besides,” he opens the door to the Dodge Caravan and snaps his phone shut. “He’s excellent at chess. Were you aware?” 

Gabriel claps him on the shoulder as Castiel sits in the passenger seat, starting up the car and pulling away from Melrose with tires squealing. “I didn’t know he played chess. Winchester? Jesus Christ,” he whistles. “I can barely believe that he’s gonna be an engineer most of the time.  _ You  _ think he’s good?” 

“I think he’s excellent, actually. You can ask Meg, too -- she saw him destroy me.” 

“How are you making all this time to see  _ Dean Winchester  _ and you won’t even hang out with me, Cassie?” Gabriel spares him a long glance as they stop at a red light. “I was going to buy you a Frosty, but now I’m not so sure. You’ve wounded me!” he declares, hand grabbing at his chest in what Castiel thinks is a very convincing demonstration of horrible acting. 

“It was just...serendipity, seeing him again. He took me out in ten minutes on our first game, Gabriel,” Castiel stares at him hard. 

“ _ You?”  _

“Me!” 

“Holy shit,” Gabriel breathes the words out soft. “You out of practice or something?” 

“No. I had just played Meg, I was doing fairly well. He was using the Sicilian Defense in a way that I’ve never seen someone use it before, not even in tournaments.” 

They pull into the Wendy’s parking lot. Gabriel pulls the key out of the ignition and looks at Castiel. “Firstly, know that this Frosty is a consolation prize for getting your ass kicked. Secondly, I want to see you get your ass kicked next time.” 

Castiel thinks for a second. He could invite Gabriel over tomorrow night, but then he won’t get to be alone with Dean. But he shouldn’t even  _ want  _ to be alone with Dean, and being alone with him -- even with chess as a distraction -- could be dangerous. But  _ damn,  _ he wishes that he could be alone with him. 

“Come to Melrose tomorrow night. You can see it firsthand. And I would like a chocolate Frosty, please.” 

***

Castiel spends most of his Tuesday drifting through his classes. They’re all seminars on Tuesday, and he can get by in his discussions without thinking that much as long as he keeps French in French class and Spanish in Spanish class. 

There’s a harsher chill in the air as he leaves his final class at four, and he tugs his beige sweatshirt around his torso while walking back to his dorm. He needs to clean up his room and take a shower before Dean gets there -- he doesn’t want Dean to think that his room is  _ usually  _ that messy _ ,  _ especially when he’s lucky enough to have a double room to himself. No roommate to blame the mess on; just Castiel’s laziness. Though an atypical college student, he is still a college student. 

He wastes no time cleaning 1307, making the bed and taking down some of his lists from the wall. He even goes the extra mile and puts a few spare blankets over the extra bed on the other side of the room -- just in case they play really late again, and maybe Dean won’t want to walk back to wherever it is that he lives, and he could just spend the night there -- 

His phone rings. 

“Hello?” 

“Castiel,” Meg’s voice, unexpected, brings a smile to his face. “What are you up to tonight? Egan’s is having a ‘ladies drink for a dollar’ night and I don’t want to get trafficked.” 

It’s an appealing idea. Castiel loves going out with Meg -- it was never like going out with Balthazar or Gabriel, who always left him in a booth at some point to talk to someone new, romantic or not. But Meg would actually stay with him, getting progressively goofier throughout the night. They’d sung karaoke at Egan’s on more than one occasion, and he now had very pleasant memories associated with “I Want it That Way”.

“Meg, I would love to, but--” 

“You hanging out with the hot chess guy again?” 

Castiel gulps. “I--”

“You  _ are!”  _ Her voice is a little more victorious than Castiel feels it should be. “Aren’t you just gonna get your ass kicked again? I know he’s pretty, but is that worth it?” 

He huffs. “Actually, I think I came up with a way to beat him. And he’s not that pretty.” 

“Being defensive isn’t a cute look, Castiel,” she says, voice tinny through his phone. As she talks, he rearranges the three pillows on his bed five times. He can’t decide which way looks the most put-together. “Normally I’d drag you out with me, but I can see you have a little crush so I’ll let it slide this time.” 

“You can come join, if you want. I would like you to. Gabriel is coming, you haven’t seen him in awhile,” Castiel tries to persuade her. He’s a little worried about having just Gabriel and Dean -- two engineers against one humanities major didn’t exactly feel like a fair setup. 

“No, it’s okay. Enjoy your guy time, I’ll just ask some freshmen in the chess club to guard me while I blast Backstreet Boys publicly.”

“They won’t be able to resist that offer,” Castiel deadpans, and he gives his empty room a small smile as Meg laughs through the phone. 

“It certainly worked on you! Why wouldn’t it work on everyone, y’know?” Meg pauses. “I want you to have fun, but stay safe, okay?” 

“I should be saying that to you. I don’t think my dorm room is necessarily full of unsavory characters outside of Gabriel.” 

“I know, I know… just be careful around that Dean guy. I don’t know much about him, and from what I can tell, neither does anyone else.” 

Castiel pauses. “He’s friends with Gabriel. They know each other. Don’t worry about me, Meg.” 

“I know you like being the only worrier in this friendship but I’m officially taking that job for the time being,” her voice is resolute, triumphant. “I’ll worry to my heart’s content, and you are my target. Have fun, and good luck tonight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Stay safe tonight, Meg,” he says. An emotion he can’t describe hangs in the air around him, slightly heavy. 

“Will do. Bye, Castiel.” 

She hangs up before he can reply, and he snaps his phone shut softly. He thinks briefly of cancelling -- he can just call Meg back, get rid of the weirdness in the air. Go sing karaoke with her. Except he doesn’t have Dean’s phone number, and maybe it  _ is  _ cutting it a little close, and if Dean thinks he’s rude then he might not come over again, ever, and then Castiel can’t look at the freckles on his knuckles anymore.  _ And I would never figure out how he’s so fucking good at chess.  _

With a sigh, he sits down on his bed and ruins his meticulously-arranged pillow formation. His wristwatch says 5:30. 

Castiel can talk with Meg about why she doesn’t trust Dean later, maybe tomorrow. He just has to put it out of his mind for now and focus on the game.  _ Just  _ the game. And having Gabriel there would make it easier to quell any untoward emotions that might pop up during the evening. He tries to put all of it out of his mind, and decides to make a list. Just a mental list, but still a list. 

  * _1\. Stop thinking about Dean like that._


  * 2\. Stop worrying about whatever Meg thinks of Dean. 


  * 3\. Stop worrying about whatever Gabriel thinks of Dean. 


  * 4\. Think about how to turn this chess game into a slaughter. 



The board beckons to him from the other side of the room, and he walks over to take one last look. He has a plan -- he just needs to get through tasks 1-3 on his list first. 

*** 

When Dean arrives, it’s five minutes past seven and Castiel has just started to mess up his freshly-washed hair. Dean knocks on the door twice before Castiel opens it, and he gives him a wide smile. “Hey, Cas!”

Castiel crooks up the corners of his mouth, barely. “Hello, Dean.” 

“No lady friend of yours?” Dean crosses the threshold into the room with raised brows, scanning the room. 

“No, Meg was busy,” Castiel says, truthfully. “Gabriel will be coming, however.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a second, face blank. “Gabriel?”

“Yes. We grew up playing chess together, he said it had never come up before that you played and wanted to see you in action,” Castiel pauses, looking at the odd expression on Dean’s face. “Would you prefer that he not come? Has something happened?” 

“Oh, no, nothing,” Dean says, quickly morphing his face back into an easygoing mask. “Gabriel has never really seen me outside of a, uh… informal environment,” he sounds sheepish as he says it. 

Castiel nods, understanding. “Don’t worry. Gabriel’s personality is identical drunk or sober. He’ll be just as insufferable here as he is four beers deep.” He shrugs a little, hyperaware of the blue fabric of his sweater drifting over his shoulder blades. 

Dean’s eyes go wide at his words, and he lets out a soft laugh. “Alright, man. I’ll trust that.” He pauses to swing his bag off his arm and onto the spare bed, retrieving the black thermos from inside and taking a deep gulp. He shrugs the green flannel off of his shoulders, and Castiel resolutely does not stare. “You wanna get started or wait on Mr. Insufferable?” 

The chess board seems to be screaming out to both of them, so they settle down on the floor and resume the same position as two nights ago. Dean rests his chin on his knee, staring hard at the squares. It takes him all of twenty seconds to review before saying “Okay, cool. I’m ready when you are.” 

Castiel furrows his brow and plays out the first move, moving one of his pawns up a square. He’s been planning for hours (days), and he knows how to win. He’s worked through it dozens of times, and this move gives him his best shot. After he moves the piece, he stares at Dean and watches him think. His face gives nothing away, steeled into an emotionless expression. But Castiel can see it -- in his left hand, hanging low next to his ankle. His fingers curl up just slightly.  _ I've got you.  _

Dean thinks, and then plays into the next move exactly like Castiel expected. He waits for an extra second than he would playing anyone else before moving his rook, but Dean still tries to catch his gaze after he moves the piece. When Castiel meets his look, Dean squints just slightly. “Not sure how even of a game it is when you’ve had two days to look at the board.” He softens the accusation with a raised brow. 

“Judging from the way you humiliated me over the weekend, I’m willing to take whatever advantage I can get,” Castiel holds his gaze, not letting his voice falter. He feels a little surge of pride -- he’s perfectly composed, even looking right into Dean’s pretty green eyes. 

Those eyes look back down at the board with a hint of self-consciousness. “It’s not like I’m doing anything special, just playing how my mom taught me,” his voice is quiet, and there’s something Castiel can’t figure out behind the words. He’s unsure of how to respond. 

He settles on a sentence that doesn’t seem like it can go wrong. “I play the same way my father taught me, as well. Get the knights out early.” 

Dean is sipping on his thermos again, but there’s a smile on his lips as he puts the lid back on. “You really love those knights, huh? When did your dad teach you?” As he speaks the words, he makes another move that Castiel anticipated. This time, he pretends to look at the board longer; plus, it gives him time to answer Dean’s question. 

“I was five, I think. Not much to do at home in the dead of winter, so we would play next to the fire while my mother watched.” He captures one of Dean’s pawns. 

“I feel you, man. Grew up in bumfuck-nowhere in Kansas, winter always sucked the life out of me,” his voice is a little more animated, and he analyzes the board without the steel on his face. He doesn’t seem like he’s hiding anything, and Castiel decides that this relaxed expression is his favorite look on Dean so far. “Where are you from, again?” He moves his piece.

“Russia,” Castiel says, and his opponent’s neck snaps up. 

“What?”

He feels a little shy. Thinking of what to say, he makes his next move; Dean is still moving exactly like he anticipated, and Castiel sneaks his bishop into place for an attack. 

Castiel regularly receives unpleasant reactions when he reveals his birthplace, leftovers from the Red Scare.  _ At least if he thinks I’m an evil commie I won’t have to worry about having a crush anymore.  _

“Yes, I was born there. I moved here when I was a teenager, to be with Gabriel’s family. My father’s side.” 

“Cas, that is  _ insane,”  _ Dean’s eyes have lit up. “I remembered you saying you were majoring in French, I thought that was cool enough, but  _ Russia…”  _ he shakes his head. “Do you speak Russian too?  _ Three languages?  _ Damn, I feel like I can barely speak English sometimes.”

_ Fuck.  _ “I’m actually a Spanish major, French is only my minor. And yes, I do speak Russian,” he says, staring hard at the white knight on the board so that Dean’s look of wonder isn’t seared into the back of his skull. He might die if he sees Dean look at him like that for longer than one millisecond. 

_ “Four?  _ Holy  _ shit,  _ Cas, that’s  _ incredible!”  _

Castiel doesn’t know how to react. It’s taking every ounce of strength in his body to not flush from head to toe. “It’s what I enjoy.” 

Dean looks at him a second longer before shaking his head and making his next move. He takes the bait, Castiel’s pawn is gone, and  _ yes --  _ he can move in for the massacre. 

They play out two more moves in silence before Gabriel walks in without a knock. “Cassie! And Deanie, too -- what a crew!” He crouches next to the board, eyes sharp. “Damn. Tough board.” 

Dean looks at him, glint in his eyes. “Cas is really bringing the heat this time.” 

This time, the flush is unstoppable. Castiel swallows, hoping it isn’t visible in the dim light of his dorm room. He makes his next pre-planned move, bishop sailing across the board in a smooth diagonal, and turns to Gabriel to say something when Dean moves his rook. 

_ What? You’re not supposed to move it there,  _ Castiel thinks, irritated. He turns back to the board instead, analyzing. Dean’s left hand relaxes a little. 

He hadn’t planned for this. It didn’t make any sense -- it didn’t help any of his pieces at that moment, and Castiel couldn’t understand how it would make sense even three, four,  _ five  _ moves ahead -- he was baffled. So he carried on with his predetermined plan, not seeing any reason to not do so. 

Within six moves, he’s been checked. Gabriel whistles. 

“You’ve got some skill, Winchester,” he says. “Let me in there. Step back, cuz. Let the master do his work.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You’re ranked lower than me, Gabriel.” 

“That  _ may  _ be true, but Deanie here is pulling some dirty moves. He needs to play someone who’s going to get down in the trenches with him.” 

Gabriel shakes Dean’s hand before they play, winking at Castiel. He settles into the floor, getting comfortable as though he’ll be there awhile. 

From his bed, Castiel checks his watch at 8:36. The game is over by 8:44. 

“Well, damn,” his cousin shakes his head, too-long hair waving with the motion. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” 

“What?” Dean says, eyes bright. His freckles seem darker in this light for some reason, and not playing meant that Castiel had the chance to admire them more than he could during their first game. He’s particularly focused on a constellation over Dean’s right cheekbone when Gabriel pitches his idea. 

“I’ve got a board in my car, let me grab it and Dean can play us at the same time. Maybe give us a chance, yeah?” 

Dean’s entire face lights up. “That sounds fucking great!” 

“Stellar. I will be right back,” Gabriel shouts it over his shoulder, running down the stairs. 

After a moment, Dean turns to Castiel, eyebrows knit together. “I’m sorry, Cas, is that okay? If you’ve gotta get to bed soon, I understand, I can get out of your hair --” 

“You’re fine, Dean,” he cuts him off. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” 

Castiel regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth; the statement seemed a little too close, too familiar for what they are. Just acquaintances, really -- not even friends and Castiel had just offered to let him stay  _ as long as he wanted.  _ He expects Dean to look at him strangely, say  _ uh, okay, that’s nice of you… I’ve got to get going,  _ and he braces for it. 

Dean smiles, wide. “Thanks, Cas!” After he says it, he takes a drink from his thermos before looking back at his host. “I appreciate it.” 

_ Oh. _

Castiel’s shocked, and he tries to not show it. It doesn't work, and in the silence Dean sips again. “You’re welcome. There’s, uh. Always an extra bed, anyway.” 

Dean shakes his head, looking back at the messy chess board. “Yeah, you got real lucky with this setup. I’d kill for something this nice.” 

He says it with such longing that Castiel almost wonders if he’s talking about the room instead of the lack of a roommate, but he can’t ponder the thought for too long. Gabriel comes storming back in, chess set in hand. They set up next to one another, Dean on one side and the cousins on the other. 

They play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 3 :) thanks for the feedback and the eight people who left kudos, it means more than you know! hope you're enjoying -- much more ~drama~ coming up if y'all want me to continue!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel gets into a difficult situation with Meg in the pursuit of stealing Gabriel's whiskey.

_ “At the same time?”  _

Balthazar’s voice is incredulous over the phone. “There’s no way. Castiel, I’ve known this Dean character for a couple of semesters and I  _ cannot  _ believe that he is some kind of chess genius. I’ve heard the boy mispronounce hyperbole.” 

“I’m telling you, Balthazar -- he’s got some kind of gift,” Castiel says as he walks to his next class. It’s been three days since he last played Dean with Gabriel, and he can’t stop thinking about it. “I’m going to ask him to play again soon, maybe tomorrow. You should watch.” 

Balthazar  _ tsk-tsks  _ on the other end of the line. “Quite the offer, but seeing as that’s a Saturday evening, I’d rather be doing just about anything else, love.” 

Castiel huffs out a breath. “I think your liver could benefit from a hiatus in beer consumption every once in a while.” 

“What if I stop by around 8:30? Before any real fun gets started outside of 1307.” 

He rolls his eyes. He feels like the only student on this campus not chomping at the bit for a chance to let all of his inhibitions go. Most of the time, Castiel felt like his inhibitions were the only thing tethering him to this earth.

“Sure. I’ll check with Dean.”  _ Not sure how to contact him, though. Maybe through Gabriel? _

“Lovely. And hey, Castiel?”

About to close his phone, Castiel brings it back to his ear. “Yes?”

“When are you going to make a move on that pretty little bird named Meg?” 

He shuts his phone with a loud _click._

***

As he finishes up his classes and gets back to his dorm, he decides to check his mail for the first time in a few weeks. He detours around Melrose and to the small student center, which was also known as the ugliest building on campus. Squat and brutalist, it was composed of ugly concrete blocks that stood in stark contrast against the pretty red brick of the rest of the campus. 

He makes his way to the back of the building, scanning for his dorm and room number among hundreds of metal rectangles lining the walls. Checking the mail isn’t something Castiel is great about, so when he opens up the little door with his even littler key, there’s a large stack of mail inside. He breathes out a sigh as he grabs the letters, turning them over in his hands so that he can start from the oldest piece of mail. 

Random coupons and spam letters addressed to former occupants make up the majority of the papers in his hands, interlaced with two letters from his mother and one from his aunt. He doesn’t open them yet but he smiles at the familiar handwriting. Underneath his English name and address is a Russian phrase, blocky Cyrillic letters feeling like home. мое солнце. 

_ My sunshine.  _

He tucks the letters behind the rest of the stack and finds his way to the most recent one. It’s smaller than the others, and the envelope is clearly his university's stationary. As he turns it over, he notices the lack of a stamp or return address and scratchy, slanted writing. His brows furrow as he stares at the letter, then decides to go ahead and open it. Castiel slips his finger under the lip of the envelope, sliding it open quickly and proceeding to pull out a piece of crudely folded notebook paper. 

_ Cas,  _

_ I realized I forgot to give you my phone number last time and we didn’t set up another game. Sorry! Here’s my number: 555-4976 _

_ -Dean  _

_ P.S. Sorry for leaving this in your mail -- didn’t want to be a creep and leave a note under your door or some shit like that.  _

There’s a smiley face scribbled in the corner. 

Castiel is entranced for such a long time at his mailbox, staring at the little note in his hand, that he misses the person clearing their throat behind him. After the second time, he scrambles out of the way with a hasty apology -- his brain is so scrambled that he says sorry in Russian, quickly correcting to English. He shuts and locks the door, then tucks all the letters but one into his backpack. Dean’s note gets tucked back into the envelope carefully before being slipped into the front pocket of his shirt. It feels like it’s burning a hole into Castiel’s chest. 

His footsteps feel heavier than usual as he walks up the stairs to his dorm at Melrose, not wanting to go back into his room. The room that Dean is going to be in,  _ soon,  _ probably. Castiel has his phone number; he could, feasibly, call him. At this very moment, and from any moment moving forward. He was just a phone call away from Dean. 

Castiel flops onto his messy bed and pulls the navy sheets around his body, feet dangling out. Should he call Dean now? If he’s going to invite him over  _ tonight,  _ he should do it in advance probably -- it’s about 1:00, but is that cutting it too close? How long had the note been there? How many days did it sit there, a hand reaching out to Cas, and he didn’t know? 

His phone rings before he has the chance to make a decision, shocking him out of his cocoon on the twin mattress. He scrambles for the device, flipping it open with hands that are just a little shaky. 

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Castiel! What are you up to tonight?” 

“Meg, hello,” Castiel breathes out a sharp sigh, chest almost caving in from the force. “I am unsure of my plans at the moment.”

“Not anymore! We’re going out. I’ve already decided,” her voice is almost gleeful. “I’m gonna make us some hot toddies and we’re going out to walk on the river. Might stop by Gabriel’s for more alcohol if we need any.” 

He smiles. Going on a walk with Meg sounds nice -- it was about a fifteen minute walk just to get to the river, and a mile round trip. They used to do it all the time freshman year, but had shifted to other activities as they grew busier and older, too occupied with school or work. 

“That sounds nice.” 

“Great! And I’ve got some  _ news _ for you, so get ready.” 

“Oh? News of what sort?” 

“The romantic kind. Be ready at nine, I’ll bring you a thermos. Bye, Castiel!” 

“Goodbye, Meg,” he says, clicking his phone shut. A hot toddy with Meg sounds like just what he needs to calm down -- maybe he can talk to her about this situation, with the phone number. Having to call Dean. The ball being in his court, as his American cousin would say. 

Meg is the only other soul on earth who knows about Castiel, but he still doesn’t talk to her about it. She acts more accepting of him than he feels about himself, most of the time -- besides, he doesn’t allow himself to have very many crushes. Or any at all, really. Dean was an anomaly; and Castiel was 99% sure that most of his interest in Dean had to do with his chess skill, at this point. He spent much more time considering the spattering of freckles over Dean’s right wrist than those over the angle of his jaw. 

But even thinking about his wrists, his hands, the slim fingers; that could be dangerous, in its own way. Castiel usually stopped himself from thinking about Dean, but the letter -- still tucked away, close to his chest -- was making it difficult. Dean’s own hands wrote out the message in messy black ink, folded it up and gave it to the student center to be filed away. The fact that he did any of it, wanted to give Castiel a way to contact him; took their meetings out of control of serendipity. He  _ wanted  _ to see Cas again. 

He shakes his head, knowing that he’s putting far too much emphasis on such a small act.  _ He left you a note. Big deal.  _

Castiel gets out of bed and ignores the warm feeling in his stomach. He pushes it down and picks up Quixote. 

_ Domínese _ .

***

By the time Meg is knocking on his door, Castiel has showered and bundled up. Every night, the weather gets a little colder -- his beige sweatshirt just doesn’t cut it anymore. He layers a black sweater and a t-shirt underneath, and his jeans hide long, pastel pink socks. His aunt sent them in a package to Gabriel, but his cousin hadn’t wanted them in a “chick color”. It was the one colorful item that Castiel owned, and he saved them for more special occasions -- they put a little extra pep in his step, a fun secret. 

He greets Meg at the door and she puts a warm thermos in his hand, immediately talking to him about her week without any  _ hello.  _ It’s not necessary for them. 

They descend the stairs quickly, footsteps echoing off the concrete. As they get to the bottom, Meg stops and adjusts her patterned scarf around her neck. She tugs it tighter against her skin, tucking the ends into the top of her gray peacoat. “You like the scarf? It’s new, got it from that mom and pop store downtown.”

“It’s nice,” Castiel says, smiling at her as he holds open the door to the outside of the building. It’s chilly, and as their walk begins Castiel takes a big gulp from the thermos. “When are you going to tell me your romantic news?” 

Meg smiles from ear to ear, skipping in front of Castiel. “I think I’m in  _ love!”  _

“With whom?” Cas is a little suspicious. Meg had a tendency to develop feelings rather quickly, but she lost them even faster. He was more worried for the object of her affection's well-being, to be frank. 

“A beautiful, gorgeous,  _ incredible  _ mechanical engineer.” 

He scoffs. “An engineer? Have you reached the digging-for-gold-stage already at age twenty-one?”

“Shut up, he’s  _ hot.  _ Besides, it’s not like I’m the only one here with a crush on an engineer,” her look is pointed as she looks over her shoulder at him. Castiel doesn’t move to catch up with her as he normally would -- instead, he looks down and maintains his slower pace. Meg turns around, walking backwards to keep talking to him as they continue toward the river. “How is that going, anyway?”

“There’s nothing  _ going,  _ necessarily,” he says, voice unsure. “I do need your advice, however. About something that happened recently.” 

“Oh? Did you find the only other gay man in northwest Iowa? Did he ask you to run away and get married?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Meg.” 

“Sorry. That’s what my engineer is probably going to do with me soon, just figured it may have already happened to you first,” she winks. “I’m done being a bitch, what happened?” 

“He left me a note.” 

Meg slows down and turns around, walking in tandem with her friend now. “A note?”

“A note. In my student mailbox. With his phone number.” 

Meg’s eyes light up. “That’s… kind of creepy but still cute at the same time. Why didn’t he just give you his number the last time you hung out?” 

“I don’t know, the note said he forgot. We’ve played chess several times now, he said he wanted to schedule it again.” 

“How long was that note sitting in your mailbox?”

“At least a couple of days. I don’t know what to say to him, when I call.” 

“Just ask him to get married.” 

_ “Meg.”  _

“Okay, okay, sorry -- why don’t you call him right now? Just ask him to come over tomorrow. That’s easy! Plus I’m here, I can hold your hand if you need to.” 

They’ve arrived at the river, and it’s gorgeous at night. They both pause to sip from their thermoses and stare at the stars reflecting in the calm water, bubbling up and gently flowing past the rocks on the shore. A breeze moves the dry leaves overhead, and Castiel thinks about how simple it would be to just live as a smooth stone under the water. No engineers with green eyes to worry about when you're a pebble.

“That might be nice. I’ll have to get through at least half of this first, though,” he says, gesturing with his thermos. Meg smiles. 

“Anything I can do to help, buddy.” 

They walk halfway down the trail, mostly in companionable silence. Meg tells him a little about her engineer: tall, dark, handsome. Social butterfly, claims to know everyone in the engineering department. As Castiel listens with a soft expression on his face, he realizes that he’s finished the hot toddy. He has more than enough liquid courage to call Dean -- plus, Meg can hold his hand.  _ I can do this.  _ Легко.  _ Easy.  _

“...so I told him that I was the classiest bitch in a 50 mile radius, and he  _ touched my shoulder,  _ Castiel! He definitely wants this hot piece of Nebraskan ass,” she says, pointing at her smirking face. Cas smiles at her, wider.  _ I hope you find someone who deserves you.  _

“Cas? Say something. You’re looking sappy.” 

“I’m just lucky to know you. And I think I should call Dean.” 

“Oh, god. Are you sure? Might say something you’ll regret.”

“I have the restraint of a monk.” 

“That’s for sure. Most repressed individual I know! How about we wait until we’re back at the top of the trail and then you can give him a call? Service is probably bad here.” 

“You are  _ so, so  _ smart, Meg!” Castiel exclaims, sliding an arm around her small shoulders. “We will do  _ precisely  _ that.” 

They walk back to the top of the trail, giggling and tipsy. Castiel takes out his phone and then Dean’s note, which he had neatly folded into his back pocket. He starts to feel an inkling of nervousness, so he wordlessly hands the phone and note to Meg. 

Meg stares at the note for a second, analyzing it. “That smiley face is pretty charming,” she admits. 

_ “Right?”  _

She smiles, dialing the number and thrusting the device back into Castiel’s hands before he has a chance to let apprehension take hold again. The warm feeling in his stomach returns as he puts the phone to his ear. 

It rings four times, and the feeling starts to fade. He doesn’t know what to do if it goes to voicemail. He doesn’t have anything prepared. Oh, god -- how did he not  _ prepare  _ anything? This is terrible. He never should have done this. The effects of the toddy feel almost entirely gone as they start walking back to Melrose, passing the little neighborhood where Gabriel -- 

“Hello?”

There’s abundant background noise, loud music and laughter, but Dean’s voice still shines through clearly. Castiel takes a deep breath and Meg grips his hand. They stop walking, briefly. 

“Dean?” 

“Yeah, who’s this?” His words are spoken a little too loudly, a little too fast. 

“It’s uh, Cas - Castiel,” he says, words feeling clumsy in his mouth. 

“Cas! Hey man, did you get my note? I guess so,” Dean says around a loud laugh. Boisterous, almost. “How are you doin’?” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Castiel’s eyes dart to Meg, confused. He thought this conversation would go differently and he’s only thirty seconds into it. “How are you?”

Dean lets out a big sigh. “I am doing just great, buddy. I’m actually over at your man Gabriel’s house right now. Where are you? What are you up to?” 

“I was walking with Meg, down by the river. We’re actually--” 

“Holy  _ shit,  _ Cas! That’s just five minutes away, you should come say hi,” Dean sounds excited. Castiel can only imagine how bright and pretty his eyes look. “It’s a big party, not like you’d be crashing anything. I don’t want to ruin your little date, though.” 

“Oh, it’s not -- we aren’t --” 

“You should still stop by, just for a second. We gotta plan on when we’re gonna play again, man. It’s almost been a week, I’m getting rusty!” 

Castiel doesn’t remember Dean being this chatty the last time he’d seen him drunk. He looks at Meg, squeezes her hand for a second. “We’ll stop in, for just a second. We can make a plan.” 

Dean lets out a  _ woo!  _ on the other end of the line. “That’s great, Cas. I can’t wait to see you. And your girl, she’s a real peach.” 

Castiel chuckles. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard someone describe Meg quite like that before,” he says, and she drops his hand to punch him lightly in the shoulder.  _ Sorry,  _ he mouths out the words.  _ Fuck you,  _ she whispers back. 

“You come find me when y’all get here, alright? I’m gonna go grab another beer. See ya, Cas,” Dean says, words like honey through the phone. Unlike most of the people Castiel talks to on the phone, he waits for Castiel to respond. 

“Goodbye, Dean.” Castiel clicks his phone shut and heaves out a massive sigh. To Meg: “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. Did I hear him call me a  _ peach?”  _

“I believe so.” 

“Jesus Christ. Who talks like that? Is he from Georgia or something?” 

“Just Kansas, I think,” Castiel says. “I’m going to go see him at Gabriel’s for a second. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.” 

“No, I’ll come with. I want to steal some of Gabriel’s whiskey,” she smiles, tugging Castiel close and linking arms. They walk. 

***

The house is, expectedly, covered up with people. This time, Castiel truly doesn’t recognize a single face -- as Meg leads him up the stairs and into the living room, the faces meld together into shadows and strobing lights. He’s sobered up considerably, and he knows Meg only came with him to counteract that fact; her whiskey search is relentless, and she drags Castiel throughout the kitchen and dining room by his hand. 

He knows that he came to find Dean, and  _ talk  _ to Dean, but now that the liquid courage has worn off he’s a little scared again. Worried about his hair, and his old sweatshirt with the broken zipper, and even what Dean would think about his pink socks if he caught a glimpse. The pit of shame, ever-present, makes itself known. Castiel lets Meg drag him all over the house purely so he has an excuse not to look for Dean -- he can’t talk to Dean without it, and he knows Meg can’t enjoy being at an overcrowded party like this without being significantly drunker than she is. The toddy impacted her more than it did Castiel -- after all, she was six inches shorter than Castiel and fifty pounds lighter -- but it still wasn’t enough to tolerate the noise, the lack of space. 

Eventually, they make their way into Gabriel’s room. It’s not totally empty, a few people laughing and talking and one couple making out in the corner. Meg turns and looks at him. “You know where he keeps it?” 

Castiel shrugs. “His father always kept it behind the Bible in their house.”

Meg marches to the bookshelf, confronted with a handsy couple. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a good book. Would you mind swapping spit somewhere else?” 

The couple scurries a few feet away, barely breaking away from one another. Castiel watches them for a second -- his hands gripping her waist, their legs tangled. He averts his eyes back to Meg, following her close to the bookshelf. He can keep them out of sight now, but he can still hear a soft moan every now and then as Meg scours the shelf for religious texts. He blinks, hard, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

Meg was the only person who had ever tried to kiss him, and all he could do was push her away. He wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t, staring at the back of her head as she searched through the spines for the King James. 

Suddenly, a cavernous ache opens up inside of Castiel’s chest. And he is alone. 

He wants to leave, immediately. Meg said something about not expecting Gabriel to have so many goddamn books, and Castiel doesn’t respond. The whiskey doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters except returning to his room and curling up on his mattress in the silence. 

Castiel turns to start walking out of the room, knowing that he’s close to some kind of breaking point. But as he begins to round the corner out of the bedroom door, he runs directly into two shoulders, one covered in plaid and the other leather.

“Cassie!” 

“Cas!”

_ Fuck.  _

Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Castiel manages to crook up the corners of his mouth just enough to keep Dean from getting suspicious, and he waves hello. Dean throws an arm around his shoulder, tugging him into a hug. 

The brief intimacy just makes Castiel want to crack open more. He can smell the alcohol pouring off of Dean, and he pulls back quickly. “Hello, Dean. Hello, Balthazar.” 

Castiel’s friend waves from behind Dean, moving forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. The music is blaring loudly, and Cas wants nothing more than to leave. 

“What are you doing here, Cassie?” Balthazar shouts into his ear, and it’s so loud and bright and  _ too much  _ that Castiel backs away a little, returning to the bedroom. Balthazar and Dean follow him, too drunk to tell that Castiel is  _ very  _ sober in comparison. 

“I came to schedule a chess match with Dean,” Castiel says truthfully, looking back at him over Balthazar’s shoulder. Dean smiles wide again, and Castiel feels the hollowness grow. 

“You came all the way to Gabriel’s shitty little house to talk to  _ Winchester?”  _ Balthazar brings his hand to his chest, dramatic. “Castiel, you’ve never done that for  _ me.”  _

He rolls his eyes. “I was out with Meg, this happened to be on the walk back.” He gestures to her, still in search of whiskey but this time on a different shelf on the opposite side of the room. 

“Miss Meg? You put the Russian charm on her yet?” 

Castiel sighs. “We’re just friends and you know that, Balthazar,” he says. Balthazar is speaking loudly, so loudly that it’s drawing attention from some of the other people in the room. From the back, a stranger says “You’re not dating her? Why not?” 

He feels his throat tighten. 

“You came in together, you’re telling me you and that chick ain’t  _ together  _ together?” The girl from the handsy couple has disentangled herself from her beau, purely to ruin Castiel’s life. 

Meg, finally realizing that  _ she  _ is the aforementioned chick, leaves the whiskey search behind. “We’re friends,” she calls out. “Leave him alone.” 

The strangers turn back to their conversations, and Castiel feels like he can breathe again. He starts to look around, ready to berate Balthazar, when he catches Dean looking at him. There’s something in his eyes that Castiel doesn’t understand. He looks back, silent, before Balthazar takes his attention again. 

“ _ C’mon,  _ Cassie! I’ve watched you with this girl for  _ years!”  _ He walks forward, shaking Castiel’s right shoulder with his hand. There’s a cup of something in his other. “Everyone, this is my dear friend Castiel. I’ve watched him be  _ hopelessly  _ in love with this girl for years, why don’t we show him a little support? A little encouragement?” 

There are a few whoops from the small crowd. 

“Kiss her!” The boy from the handsy couple shouts. Castiel feels the emptiness grow, and he wants to sink into the floor and never return. Humiliation crawls up his spine.

Meg has moved closer to him, and she leans in and whispers: “Let’s just go.” 

“ _ Kiss her!” “Kiss her!” “Kiss her!”  _

She grabs his hand, starting to drag him to the door. Castiel's feet feel heavy, and the strangers in the crowd have the audacity to boo and jeer.

Balthazar moves in front of them. “Look, you two, I think it’s best if we just give the people what they want,” he extends his hands, pragmatic. “You’d be quite the couple, I must say.” 

Castiel turns and looks at Meg. There’s a mix of anger and sadness on her face, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do -- he doesn’t want them to know, all of these strangers and Balthazar. Or to realize. But he doesn’t want this, forcing his friend into a lie. Hurting her even more than he already has.

His fists curl up. “I’ve said no. So has Meg.” 

Balthazar’s hand is heavy on his elbow as he speaks, head cocked and words still too loud. “Cassie, someday you’re going to have to  _ lighten up,  _ how are you supposed to get with anyone other than your right hand if you--”

_ THUD.  _

Balthazar’s drink falls out of his hand and onto Castiel’s shoes. 

He’s shocked by the sudden cold, but not as shocked as he is seeing Dean slam Balthazar up against the wall. 

The freckled man stares at Balthazar, hands curled into the front of his jacket. It’s hard to make out his facial features in the hazy lighting, but Castiel sees something that he can only describe as fire in Dean’s eyes. 

As he holds Balthazar in place, Meg grabs Castiel’s hand. He squeezes it. 

The room is quiet, everyone staring at the two men on the back wall. The music from the living room still blares, but three heads are now poking in from the doorway. Even more in the distance, people clamoring to see what looks like the beginning of a fight.

“They said no. Do you understand what ’ _ no’  _ means, you smarmy bastard?” Dean’s voice is lower than usual, and when Balthazar just looks at him, eyes wide, Dean pushes him against the wall harder. “Did you hear me?” 

“Yes! Yes, I… I know what ‘no’ means,” Balthazar stutters, hands flat against the wall. 

Dean glares for a second longer before releasing him and stepping back, silent. He looks at Castiel and Meg blankly for a moment before cracking another smile. “Y’all wanna walk on back? This place is getting old.”

Cas finds himself wordless, and he nods. Dean walks out the door, clearing a path for Castiel and Meg as they wade through the sea of moving bodies in the main rooms of the house. His heart is racing. 

At the front door, Dean keeps going -- onto the patio, down the stairs. Reaching the sidewalk, he turns to the both of them and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Who we taking home first?” Meg looks between the two of them quickly, then raises her hand silently. "Alright, let's get a move on. It's cold as all get out in this hellhole, yeah?" 

They walk Meg back to her apartment, just a few blocks from campus. They’re silent, footsteps crunching on the occasional fallen leaf. Meg has released Castiel’s hand, and he shoves his frozen fingers in his pockets. 

At the front entrance, she turns to face the two men. “Well, thanks for the escort boys,” she tries to put on her normal smirk, but it’s an easy mask to see through. 

“Anytime,” Dean says, putting out his hand to shake. “Wouldn’t want you getting harassed twice in one night.” 

Meg’s lips tighten for a second, and she looks at Dean with hard eyes. Her gaze tracks over his face, and after a moment her mouth relaxes. She shakes his hand, and Castiel releases a breath that he didn't realize he was holding.

“Thank you.” 

She looks back at Castiel with something sadder in her expression. “See you later, Castiel.” Meg walks into her building, leaving them alone. It’s not cold enough to see his breath, but Castiel feels like Dean can detect each of his shallow inhales anyway. He looks at his slightly taller companion, and Dean reaches over to briefly squeeze his arm. The touch banishes the heavy feeling that Balthazar left on him, and Castiel feels the hollow in his chest close up just a little. 

“Let’s head back, buddy.” 

It’s just ten minutes to Melrose, but after three Castiel breaks the silence. “Why did you do that?” 

Dean looks at him, surprised. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms to the cold despite his earlier complaint. “Do what?”

Castiel stops walking, staring at him. Dean continues for two steps before turning back at him. “Balthazar. All of that?” 

“Oh,” Dean says, looking down sheepishly. He shrugs. “That’s nothing.” 

Cas shakes his head, taking one step closer. “No, that was… a lot. Thank you.” 

Once again, Dean shrugs. “Not really. I just know that it sucks when someone makes you do something you don’t wanna do.” He turns away and keeps walking, looking back over his shoulder when Cas doesn’t move. “You trying to freeze me to death? Come on.” 

Castiel catches up with him, and they’re silent for another two minutes. The stars aren’t as bright here as they are near the river, but it’s still pretty -- walking around the empty campus, quiet and dark. Just the gentle sound of Dean’s footsteps. 

They get to Melrose, and Castiel pauses to grab his student card to swipe into the building. This time, Dean breaks the silence. 

“Hey, Cas, I want you to know -- I think you’re a really cool guy. I’m sorry if leaving you that note was weird, or something, I just wanted to hang out with you again,” he says, hand heavy on the back of his own neck. He won’t look directly at Castiel, and he shifts nervously on gently curved legs. “It’s nice, getting to play chess with you and shit. I’m not good at a whole lot of stuff. I didn’t really know that I was good at this, until now.” 

Castiel pauses, looking up from his card to stare at Dean. “What do you mean, you didn’t know?”

Dean shrugs. “I just played against my mom and my little brother, when I was a kid. Played here and there in high school, but nothing else.” 

Castiel can feel his eyes widen. “Dean. How on earth didn’t you play more when you were young? Why?” 

His jaw clenches, and Dean moves his hands deep into his pockets. “My mom died, about a year after she taught me,” he says. He won’t meet Castiel’s eyes as he says the words. “So I just stopped.” 

The air feels heavy, and Castiel wants to pull Dean into a hug. Some part of him knows that isn’t what Dean wants, though -- a sign of pity, of being sorry for him. Instead, Castiel shuffles his feet and looks to the sky. He breathes out, softly, and just closes his eyes for a second.

“Dean, you are incredible. If no one has told you that before, I will gladly be the first.” 

Dean's head shoots up, staring at his companion with big eyes. His jaw slackens, and Castiel wants to rest his hand against the soft curve of Dean’s face. 

Instead, he offers Dean a warm smile. “We can play tomorrow, if you want.” 

Dean’s expression turns into something soft, and the tension drops from his posture as he nods. “Hell yeah, Cas.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long one! sorry it's been a few days, it's finals week :/ anyway, please let me know if you enjoyed and would like me to continue!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean become closer.

Castiel makes another list. 

  1. _Go to class._
  2. _Call Mom._
  3. _Make fun of Meg’s boytoy._
  4. _Chess with Dean._



Item number four had become a daily thing -- he didn’t  _ really  _ need to include it. It was a given, just like chugging coffee and procrastinating his Camus readings. But he liked writing it out, the way the letters in Dean’s name curved over the sheet of paper. It also served as a reminder; they were just playing chess, nothing else. Staring into Dean’s eyes for longer than two friends should certainly hadn’t made the list. And Castiel felt comfortable calling Dean that, now -- a friend. 

Something had changed after Gabriel’s party five weeks ago. Castiel had been studying his moves, and it got to a point where he could win  _ maybe  _ once or twice a week; but when you’re playing a chess freak, those wins felt heavenly. Not quite as heavenly as their knuckles brushing together, putting away pieces at the end of each game -- but close. 

They started playing chess every day, and the first two weeks they mostly played in silence. There was an occasional curse or sigh, but they didn’t speak to each other the way they had after the incident with Balthazar. Castiel didn’t mind -- all of his other friends were so  _ loud.  _ Not that he didn’t love that about his friends -- he was naturally inclined to be quiet, so it was nice to have other people fill up the silence that he usually carried around him. But silence with Dean was something different; it didn’t feel heavy. It just was.

Until, one day, Dean was late to their game. 

He was drinking more from the black thermos than usual, and it was the first time Castiel beat him in under thirty minutes. As he had moved to check, trapping Dean between his knight and rook, Dean just breathed out in defeat. He looked at Castiel with shadows under his eyes and a fake smile, then stuck his hand out to shake. “Good game, Cas. You got me good.” 

Castiel stared at him. He didn’t extend his hand. 

“That wasn’t a good game at all.” 

Dean scowled at him and withdrew his hand, gripping his thermos instead. Whatever he’d been drinking, he’d already worked through all of it. “No need to kick a man while he’s down, Christ.” 

He looked off in the distance, and that was the first time since Balthazar that Dean has hardened his face around Castiel. The mask was back on, and he hated it. 

“What’s wrong, Dean?” 

“Nothing.” 

Castiel wanted to sigh, but thought better of it -- instead, he wordlessly started putting away the pieces. “You don’t have to tell me what the issue is,” he said, “but I have a feeling that kicking your ass at your own game isn’t going to improve your mood.” 

Dean looked up at him, eyes confused. 

Cas finished putting away the set, plopping it back on his desk before joining Dean on the floor again. He stared at him, this time without any underlying desire, and drew his knees up to his chest. “We can sit here, if you want, or walk. Or I can make you something to drink that isn’t going to hurt your liver.” 

At his last comment, Dean flinched. The movement was slight, and covered quickly -- but after two weeks of watching his strategy during games, Castiel could read his companion rather easily. And he wasn’t so naive as to ignore the way Dean’s shoulders loosened each time he swigged from the thermos. 

Castiel continued to stare at him, raising his eyebrows in question.  _ What are we going to do?  _

After a moment, Dean answered. “What do you have to drink?”

Castiel made them both cups of ginger tea in the communal kitchen at the end of the hall. And after Dean made it through half of his mug, he started talking about Sam. About the stress of trying to put them both through college by himself, Sam failing a class and having to spend extra next semester to make up for it. Dean dragged a steady hand down his face, mumbling about how he thought that paying for his own school was tough, but  _ Stanford too? And he's hanging out with some girl named Ruby, and just trust me, Cas, she's a real piece of work... _

“It’s just tough. It feels like too fucking much, sometimes.” 

Cas just nodded, and made him more tea. Listened a little more, the next day. And now every few days Dean will say something about Sam. Sometimes good, sometimes not so good. But Castiel always listens.

And now, here they are. 

Dean comes over every night after dinner and stays for at least three games -- sometimes more, depending on how many classes he has the next day. He always leaves early on Friday and Saturday, and though Dean’s extended many an invitation for Castiel to join him at his parties, he always declines. He has a lingering fear of encountering Balthazar and he doesn’t want to deal with the fallout from that bizarre incident just yet. He’s content to stay in and read or hang out with Meg, most of the time. 

But today, Dean is putting up a fight. 

“Come out with me,” he begs, barely looking at their pieces on the board. “You’re cooped up in here  _ every night,  _ Cas--” 

“I go out with Meg at least once a week,” Castiel says, which is true if making the walk from Meg’s apartment to the liquor store counted as going out. 

“This is your last year of college, man! Just once. You know that not all engineering majors are assholes,” Dean winks at him and puts on that award-winning grin, and Castiel tries not to let the heat in his chest spread further than his collarbones. 

“Yeah, just the mechanical ones,” he quips, and Dean scoffs. 

“Act bitchy all you want, at least I get to work with motors and engines instead of being cooped up with boring books all day.  _ And  _ I’ve got time to get shit-faced, which is what college is all about anyway.” 

Dean shrugs as he stands up, gathering up his ancient leather jacket and slipping it over his long-sleeved gray shirt with ease near the door. He toes on those same falling-apart gray sneakers, the tread worn thin. Castiel thinks back to the first time he really encountered Dean, and wonders if he’ll ever reveal that it was him. Wonders if Dean even remembers.

After spending a solid three seconds staring at the curve of Dean’s shoulders through his jacket, Castiel scowls. The comment is grating to him, a little bit. He’s used to being ridiculed by Gabriel, but he doesn’t like it coming from Dean. 

_ “Je pensais que tu appréciais le fait que je parle beaucoup de langues? C’est vrai, oui?”  _

The words come out fast and sharp, and Castiel sees Dean stiffen. He turns back to Castiel, and his mouth is hanging open a bit. 

“What-- what does that mean?” His voice is different. Castiel can't put a finger on it, but it's different.

He shrugs and turns back to his desk, starting to rearrange the papers on his desk. “I don’t know, it’s just some boring phrase I learned from a boring book.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, low, and when their eyes meet again Castiel feels the heat in his chest reignite. But this is different, because Dean is looking right back at him. “Sorry for being a dick. Tell me what it means.” He doesn’t look away, and Castiel feels trapped. 

There’s a small noise as he swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and he immediately regrets the way his eyes flick to Dean’s mouth. He turns to his desk again and grabs a pen, crossing out  _ Chess with Dean  _ so that his hands have something to do instead of hanging limply at his sides. “It means ‘I thought you liked that I speak a lot of languages.’  _ Je pensais que tu appréciais le fait que je parle beaucoup de langues. _ ” 

Dean nods, and Castiel hears the door open. “Huh,” he says, voice back to normal. It feels safe, then, for Cas to look at him again before he leaves.

He wishes he hadn’t, though, because Dean is staring at him with this soft smile on his face that is usually reserved for talking about Sam on good days. “I do,” he says. 

Castiel blushes, cheeks turning red embarrassingly fast. “Have a good time tonight, Dean,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and averting his eyes to the floor tiles. 

“I will, Cas. Offer still stands anytime,” he says, waving before he shuts the door.

***

The next morning, Castiel is awoken by his phone buzzing. He flicks open his phone and closes his eyes as he answers, voice gravelly. “Hello?”

“Club today,” Meg chirps. 

He groans. “When?”

“Eight-thirty. You’re being a phenomenally shitty vice president.”

“I was worse at being president.” 

“ _ That  _ is very true,” she says with a sigh. “It’s a miracle we weren’t disqualified from the tournament in D.C. last year. Still, just because you’re not commander-in-chief doesn’t mean you should only show up to club when you feel like it. You’re supposed to be one of our fearless, bi-weekly leaders.”

“I know, I know. But I trust that you’ve been keeping everyone in line in my absence,” he says, smiling a little. He loved talking about the chess club as if it were an army -- gallant soldiers flying into battle, blades drawn. It was hard to explain to people how  _ intense  _ chess could be. The rush of adrenaline after executing a move, the intense despair of having a key piece snatched away, how you could block out everything else and just  _ focus on one damn thing.  _

“Hey, Meg.”

“Hey, yourself. What is it?”

“We should have Dean over to the club,” Castiel says. 

Meg scoffs. “Do you want to kill the spirit of every single dork at this school?” 

“I’ve been playing him every day. He’s probably bored with my strategy, he should try playing some other people. Besides, if we get him to join the team then we could stand a chance at the district tournament.” 

“Castiel, it almost sounds like you’re trying to use your new beau as a pawn,” she says, and he can hear her smirk through the phone. “I  _ would _ like to see that bumpkin again. Been a few weeks.” 

“He’s not a bumpkin, he’s very intelligent,” Castiel shakes his head as he defends his friend, thinking about how Dean somehow figured out how to fix his sink when it wouldn’t stop leaking a week ago. “He’s going to be a mechanical engineer, after all.” 

“I don’t care how many physics classes he’s taken, the guy calls his knights  _ horses,”  _ she laughs into the phone, and Castiel laughs along with her. He’s risen from bed and started moving around his room, trying to find a shirt clean enough to cover his shoulders in the chilly October air. As he scans the room, his eyes linger on his to-do list from yesterday. He realizes that he fell behind on both items two and three, and he decides to catch up immediately. 

“How’s your suitor? From what I can tell he hasn’t whisked you away to elope yet.” 

“He’s beautiful and still thinks I’m the funniest person on earth, so I would say things are just peachy,” her voice goes a little soft, and  _ oh.  _ That’s new. 

“When am I going to get a chance to meet this individual? I might have to get out my shotgun, scare him into shape,” Castiel says dryly. He relishes in the sound of Meg laughing on the other end of the line. 

“He's mechanical too, so maybe we can double date,” she says, and for a second, Castiel pauses. Closes his eyes, lets himself think. 

_ Going out to dinner at some nice restaurant. He helps Dean with his tie before they go, and the green matches his eyes. They walk downtown from their nice little apartment, find Meg and her man inside; they hug before sitting down, and Dean gives a strong handshake to both Meg and her boyfriend. As they sit down, he takes Castiel’s hand on the table and his thumb rubs over the back of Castiel’s wrist-- _

“Cas? Hey, sorry, guess that wasn’t the best joke. Maybe I’m not the funniest person on earth,” Meg says, taking his silence as hurt. “I’m sorry, Castiel, that wasn’t--”

“It’s okay, Meg,” he says, sitting back down on his bed. There’s an ache in his chest that he doesn’t want to put a name to. He swallows. “Just...spaced out, for a second. That’s all. I am okay.”

They pause, and it’s heavier this time. 

Castiel takes a silently shaky breath into his lungs, digs his fingers into his knee. “I can’t wait to be trophy wives with our mega-rich engineering husbands in the future. Maybe we can start shopping at Whole Foods.” 

Meg laughs, and Castiel sighs. He’s saved her from being worried.  _ I am okay.  _

“I can’t wait to drink luxury moscato with you, darling,” Meg’s voice is back to its normal lilt, and Castiel manages a smile even if she can’t see it. Convincing himself.  _ I am okay.  _

“Sooner or later. I’ll try to bring Dean tonight.”

“Lovely!  _ Au revoir,  _ Castiel,” she says, hanging up quickly after. 

_ I am okay.  _

The pit of shame in his stomach grows, stretches out, reaching into his shoulders and past his knees. 

_ I am okay.  _

It feels dark and rotten, bogging down his lungs. 

_ I am okay.  _

Castiel lets his shoulders shake a little as a tear soaks into the hem of his shirt.

_ This is okay.  _

***

Dean shows up to Castiel’s dorm at seven, and he pushes down the ache in his bones when his visitor smiles at the open door. 

“Hey there, Cas,” he says, cheeks flushed and shoulders loose. “You ready?” 

He claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing a little.

Castiel tries to ignore the thermos in Dean’s hand and the artificial reason behind his warmth. Instead, he molds a smile onto his face and sets up the board in silence. 

“How you doing lately, buddy? Feels like it’s been fuckin’ years,” Dean says, chuckling a little. He’s staring at Castiel unabashedly, and when Cas returns his gaze he can’t help noticing that the flush makes Dean’s freckles stand out more. He also knows, by now, that this means Dean has already had a  _ lot  _ to drink. 

“We saw each other yesterday, Dean,” he says, words clipped. The chess pieces make soft sounds as he places them down on the board, and he tries to focus on those sounds instead of the rustling that Dean’s shirt makes every time he moves.

“Damn, a guy’s not allowed to miss his friend? You hurt me, Cas,” Dean says, placing his hand over his chest. It rests there for a moment before moving down slightly, unfastening just one button on his green flannel. He exhales loudly, almost  _ dramatically --  _ “Kinda hot in here, buddy.” 

Castiel glances up at his friend after finishing the setup of the board, staunchly ignoring the newly exposed skin of Dean’s chest. “I think it’s temperate.” 

Dean busts out laughing. “God, I never fucking get tired of you,” he says. Despite his best efforts, Castiel blushes.  _ Damn it.  _

It doesn’t help that when Dean is this far gone, his language is somehow fouler than it normally is. And it’s not that Castiel is a blushing violet when it comes to cursing -- after all, those were the first words he learned in Spanish -- but something about the way  _ fuck  _ sounded coming out of Dean’s mouth was obscene. 

“I enjoy your company as well,” he says, doing his best to remain composed. Dean beams at him, looking down at the board to hide his smile, and Castiel feels his heart skip a beat. “Let’s play.” 

Dean starts by moving his knight, immediately stumping Castiel.  _ What? Why the hell are you doing that?  _

In all of their time playing, Castiel had realized that Dean didn’t play based on  _ any  _ standard chess openings or first moves -- he just did what he wanted, and it somehow  _ worked  _ almost every time. But he had never done this before. Because it didn’t make any sense. 

Castiel thinks for a few minutes, wondering about the best way to approach it. In the end, he decides to take a page out of Dean’s book and just do what feels right -- he mimics the move on his own side, moving out his knight so the board is mirrored. 

Castiel hears Dean exhale softly, and Dean reaches over the board to lightly push Castiel’s left shoulder. “You copyin’ me, Cas?” 

The casual touch is so unexpected that Castiel doesn’t know how to respond. Usually, the board is practically a physical barrier -- they don’t cross it until the game is done, and even then they just briefly shake hands. Dean always initiates; Castiel doesn’t trust himself to reach out. His hands have started acting of their own accord in the morning during his showers, or late at night after Dean has been visiting -- he doesn’t trust them with Dean actually  _ there.  _

“You picked an odd first move. What would you expect me to do?” 

Dean stares at him for a second, thinking. “How ‘bout we play through and then I show you why I did it?” 

Castiel thinks for a second. He really should bring up going to the chess club already, but he wants to spend a little longer in this bubble with Dean. Especially because Dean is looking at him a lot more than he usually does. 

“Sure.” 

They play through the game in twenty-three minutes according to Castiel’s wristwatch, and Dean wins by the skin of his teeth. With a sigh, Castiel turns his king on its side: “I resign. Alright, show me how you did it.” 

His opponent grins again, swigging from his thermos before starting to set the board back up. Castiel’s hand, unbidden, darts across the board and stops Dean from moving a pawn back to its starting spot. His fingertips are warm on his skin, and Dean looks up at him with wide eyes. 

Castiel breathes in shakily, willing his lungs to cooperate. “How are you going to show me if we go back to the beginning?” 

“I remember how it went. You can’t keep it in your head?” Dean says, face quizzical. 

Castiel withdraws his hand and stares. “You can remember the dozens of moves we made in twenty minutes?” 

“Yeah.” 

His eyes narrow. “Show me. Actually, wait--” Castiel says, leaping up from his spot on the floor to grab a piece of paper and pen. He returns, quickly scribbling down the position of each piece on the board at the game’s finish. He places it, face-down, next to the board. Meeting Dean’s gaze, he lets the corner of his mouth slant upwards. “Prove it.” 

A look passes on Dean’s face that Castiel can’t name before he narrows his eyes, mimicking him. “You don’t trust me, Cas?” 

He shrugs, eyes crinkling up as his smile grows wider. 

“Alright, man. I’ll take that fucking challenge.” He takes a drink from his thermos.

They set the board up, and Dean makes his first move, again. Castiel mimics, again. They keep going for four more moves, Dean offering an explanation that barely makes sense for each one. He assures Castiel: “Just trust me, Cas. You’ll see why in a couple moves.” 

At his fifth move, Castiel tries his best to remember his move. He knows it was a bishop, and he knows it blocked a pawn. But he’s jumbled up -- he knows the ending, he knows that this move ended up being a  _ mistake,  _ and on top of that he’s thinking about Dean’s strategy which is  _ infuriatingly  _ convoluted, and--

“Cas? Move it three, to the right,” Dean says confidently. 

He stares at the board harder before glancing up. “You’re sure?” 

Dean smiles. “Positive.” 

They keep going for three more moves before Castiel stops him. “That doesn’t make any sense. You putting your rook there puts your queen in danger, and that’s the most powerful piece on the board.” 

“And I beat you without it because you took the fuckin’ bait!” Dean smiles, triumphant. 

Cas sighs and shakes his head. “Not a single soul on this earth uses the queen as  _ bait,  _ Dean. It’s far too risky the _vast_ majority of the time.” 

“No, no, dude. You’re just not seeing it. Come over to my side,” Dean pats the ground next to him and quickly gulps from his thermos. It’s empty now. 

_ Fuck.  _

Castiel blinks at him once before moving.  _ It would be...weirder, if I didn’t. Yeah. I have to. To make it not weird. Normal, even. Two normal friends playing normal chess. Friendly game of chess. _

He moves slowly, migrating around the board and settling next to Dean with a scant two inches between their knees. Castiel focuses as hard as he can on the pieces, but Dean starts reaching over with his  _ left  _ arm instead of his right to move -- and each time he does, his shoulder bumps up against Castiel.  _ What a nice shoulder,  _ he thinks. 

“Here, look at this,” Dean says, and his voice is softer now. Castiel swallows. “You took my queen, but  _ adios,  _ bitch! I’ve still got my rooks, my bishops, a knight…” he gestures broadly to the board, and Castiel resolutely doesn’t turn to look at him. He can feel how close Dean is, smell the whiskey on him. 

“Just watch me. You’ll understand if you see it from my side,” he says, and all Castiel can do is nod. Except this time, Dean reaches far across to the opposite side of the board with his right hand -- his left serving as an anchor on Castiel’s back. He can barely breathe. 

Dean’s hand feels hot, even through the fabric of Castiel’s t-shirt. He can feel the press of his fingers, the shape of his palm.

_ I am going to die.  _

Though staring intently at the board, he hasn’t taken in a single thing that Dean has said since his hand moved to Castiel’s back. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself and trying to ignore the press of his friend’s hand. He focuses on the board, the way the knights move, the bishops flying across and taking out pawns left and right -- and  _ oh,  _ it really is easier to see from Dean’s perspective. Even though he can focus on something other than the hand now, he curls his fists into the fabric of his shirt to keep them in check. Just in case. 

He finishes, knocking Castiel’s king over before grinning at his friend. “You can check your little piece of paper now.” 

Castiel’s hands feel sweaty as he retrieves the sheet, and  _ holy shit.  _

It’s exactly the same. 

He smiles softly at the board, gaze flickering between the paper and the pieces. “You never cease to amaze me, Dean.” 

Castiel finally turns to look at him, and Dean is closer than he should be. From here, Castiel can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the way that his eyelashes get lighter at the ends. Something electric crackles under his skin, and Castiel can’t help it when he stops breathing for a second as he glances at the bow of Dean's lips.

When he meets Dean’s eyes again, Dean speaks soft and low. 

“You’re the only person who talks to me like that, Cas.”

Then he stares right at Castiel’s mouth. 

He feels hot and wild, and whatever it is under his skin is making him want to do something  _ stupid.  _ And the way Dean is looking back at him, Castiel has a fleeting thought that maybe he isn’t alone in his stupidity.

His phone rings. 

Castiel is shocked out of the moment, pulling back so quickly that Dean’s hand falls away from his back. He inhales deep and fast, not realizing that he'd been holding his breath. “I should--” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, staring at the ground. The hand that was on Castiel’s back is now rubbing Dean’s neck, nervously, as he scoots further away. He toys with the cap on his thermos as Castiel leaps up and looks for his phone. 

It’s buried in the sheets of his bed, and he picks it up on the last ring. “Hello?” 

“ _ Castiel!  _ Club is in ten minutes and your ass isn’t here,” Meg’s voice is scathing. He groans.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he mutters. He puts a hand over his eyes. “I’ll be over soon. I promise.” 

Instead of responding, the call ends. Castiel sighs and turns back to Dean. “Hey, Dean--” 

“You’ve got something else going on, I get it,” he says, shaking his head. “No worries.” 

Castiel swallows. Dean has started to get his things, grabbing his jacket from the spare bed. Cas is wringing his hands. 

“It’s chess club,” he says, trying to make his voice lighter. “You could, do that thing. Show everyone else how you showed me.” He can hear how frantic his voice is, trying to keep Dean close.  _ You are making it weird. Stop. _

Dean’s eyes are turned down as he toes on his old shoes, but he looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze. “Show them?” 

“Yeah,” Cas nods, trying to sound more normal. He clears his throat.  _ Be normal.  _ “Just like this, just another… friendly chess game.” 

Something hardens in Dean’s eyes. “Friendly chess game?” 

Castiel nods again. “Yes. Everyone would love to meet you. Meg will be there.” 

He leans down to grab his thermos from the floor, and when he stands back up Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s chest aches.

Dean looks to the door, scoffing before giving a bitter smile to the chess set. “Thanks for the offer, Cas. But I’m not feeling real friendly tonight.” He doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. 

Limp, Castiel’s hands fall to his sides. “Oh. Alright.” 

They stand there for another few moments, silence clogging the air. 

“I’ve gotta get going somewhere,” Dean says, his voice curt. He turns the doorknob with his left hand, and Castiel can’t help but remember where that hand was resting just five minutes ago. 

His head is empty of things to say. He feels the electricity under his skin, but now it  _ hurts.  _ Feels sharp, watching Dean walk away from him. 

Hollow, he finally speaks. “Have a good time tonight, Dean.” 

Dean looks up, door half-shut behind him. His expression is plastered into a neutral mask that makes Castiel feel a deep kind of melancholy. 

“You too, pal.” 

The door shuts, and for the second time that day, Castiel sits on his bed and cries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long-ish break! finals still (wish me luck tomorrow)! i can update more frequently after friday. please let me know if you enjoy, and thank you for reading!


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